The Mask of Fu Manchu

gigantic power, he is as forceful to-day as he was in the first hour that I ever set eyes on him in a forest of Burma. That’s agreed. He has one virtue. According to his admittedly peculiar code—he is a man of honour.”

“Stop!”

Sir Lionel was up, now, his strong hands clenched, his eyes glaring upon the speaker.

“Stop, Smith! I won’t take it from you or from any man. I may have broken every other commandment, but I have never lied.”

“Have I accused you of lying?” Sir Denis’s voice was very cool.

“Practically, yes.”

“You remained in Ispahan until Solomon Ishak, perhaps the finest craftsman in the East, had duplicated the relics of the prophet. Oh, it was clever work, Barton. But...”

“Well,” growled the chief, still glaring at him. “But, what...? Didn’t the man Aden or Samarkan or whatever his name is— pass the stuff that we showed him in Shepheard’s? Did I or did you undertake to deliver up anything else? We had Rima back, and we handed over the duplicates.” Furiously he kicked the box. “Ali Mahmoud had the relics. He brought them from old Soloman Ishak back to Cairo, and from Cairo on board here. And there they are!”

He dropped back onto the settee, his mouth working evilly, for he was in murderous humour. But Nayland Smith continued to watch him calmly.

“It would be reviving an ancient libel to say that you argue like a Jesuit, Barton,” he remarked coldly.

“Thanks!” snapped the chief. “You have probably said enough.”

I think I have never felt more unhappy in my life. The facts now revealed to me were astounding; the ethics of the thing beyond me. But it was ghastly that these two old friends— men of first-rate genius in their separate spheres—should thus be almost at one another’s throats.

Loyalty to the chief forbade my siding with Sir Denis, yet in my heart I knew that the latter was right. The price had been Rima’s life; and Sir Lionel had played a faked card.

It didn’t surprise me; and since he had succeeded, I had it in my heart to forgive him, but:

“You know chief,” I said, “I can see what Sir Denis means;.

So don’t boil over. We were in the wrong.”

I hadn’t meant it; I am not clever enough to have thought of it; but that use of “we” rather did the trick. Sir Lionel relaxed and looked at me in an almost kindly way.

“You think so, Greville?” he growled.

“Well, it was the devil of a risk, and Dr. Fu Manchu,” Nayland Smith snapped, “discovered the substitution in Damascus, on the very day, I believe, that I arrived there. By means of what secret knowledge held by certain imams of the Great Mosque he anticipated that the forgery would be detected, I don’t know.”

He paused—his pipe had gone out, and he struck a match;

then:

“Someone spoke from the pulpit that evening. The huge mosque was packed to the doors. I have never seen such mass fanaticism in my life.”

“Were you there?” asked the chief with sudden boyish enthusiasm.

“I was.”

“Good old Smith!”

And in those words I recognized the fact that the storm had blown over.

“The speaker wore a green turban, a green robe, and a thick gold mask.”

“It was Fu Manchu!”

“I am still inclined to doubt it. I don’t think I could mistake him. If it were he, then he has thrown off the burden of thirty years. He held his audience in the palm of his hand, as I know Fu Manchu can do. But the virility of his voice...”

And as he spoke, a sort of half-memory stirred in my brain. It passed—leaving a blank.

“There were doubters there. And that very night, as I believe, the substitution was discovered. The new Mahdi opened brilliantly, Barton, but he met with a definite check in Damascus. What actually happened I naturally don’t profess to know. But—” he pointed to the wooden chest on the floor of the cabin—”are they in there?”

“They are!” said the chief triumphantly.

“The rumour is already spreading—you know how news travels in these parts—that Mokanna is an impostor. I need not add that our Intelligence Department is zealously fostering this. Only one thing could save the situation.” He pointed again to the chest. “I don’t know where Dr. Fu Manchu is, but from my knowledge of his methods I should predict that he is not far from Port Said at the present moment.”

Those words sent a cold shudder down my spine.

“He’s too late,” growled Sir Lionel; “we sail in fifteen minutes.”

“I know,” Nayland Smith returned. “But while I’m aware that I am wasting words, if I were in your shoes. Barton, I should be disposed to send Ali Mahmoud ashore with that crate and sail in comfort.”

“You’d do nothing of the sort!” shouted the chief, jumping up again. “You know it as well as I do.”

“Very good. I’ve a few suggestions to make before I go ashore. I can’t possibly leave Egypt for at least another week, when I hope that Petrie will be ready to join me.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHTH

“THE SWORD OF GOD”

“Bolt the door, Greville,” said Sir Lionel.

I did as he directed. His stateroom presented an appearance of untidiness which, even for the chief, touched the phenomenal. He had unpacked the wooden crate, and the floor was littered with straw and paper.

It proved to contain three packages tied up in canvas; one, long and narrow, which enwrapped the sword of the prophet;

another, the heaviest, rectangular and perhaps eight inches thick; and a smaller one, which was obviously some kind of box.

“Get busy with the big package,” he directed energetically. “Untie the string, but don’t cut it. We shall want to use it again.”

“Very good,” I said resignedly, and set to work.

The Indramatra had just pulled out from her berth, Nayland Smith and the Company’s agent being the last two visitors to go down the ladder. Rima was in her cabin busily unfolding frocks which had been folded for weeks and about the condition of which she was in complete despair.

What Sir Lionel’s object could be in unpacking these treasures, now that at last we had escaped with them, was a problem which defeated me. But mad though he was, there was generally some method in his madness.

“Gad! what a beauty!” he cried.

He had unwrapped the scimitar and was gazing upon it with the eyes of a lover. Indeed I knew, had known for many years, that the chiefs heart was wholly in the past. He worshipped these relics of strange men and wild times, although his collections, of which he had one in each of his several houses, must have broken the heart of any museum curator. Priceless pieces were as likely to be found upon the floor, or on the seat of a chair where a careless visitor might sit upon them, as anywhere else. But the fact remained that his enthusiasm was genuine.

“You’re a hell of a long time with the plates,” he growled.

These knots want a bit of coping with.”

“Give it to me and unpack the mask.”

I complied only too willingly.